She felt herself
Maudlin and a
A stitching that
Too often came
Undone,

But she what
She could not see
Beyond her angel wings
Was the light she made
While sunken in her grave

Surrounded by a ink
That spread through her
Veins and poisoned
Her brain and tinted
Whatever fluid
Sloshed about
In her eyes piercing green
On some days,
Hazel brown on others,

Enveloped in darkness,
Shaded by trees,
The leaves sung for her
And the grass danced,
But she felt wrong
In her own skin
And tried to cut it off.

I cannot help
But to cling
To the memories
Where I once was
Beautiful,

Reduced now
To cold food
In a cracking bowl,
Shivering
Without a blanket,

And typing
Into a text box
I secretly hope
Will delete
This awful thought.

All the while, as I stare up and think and attempt to make something of the thoughts swimming in my head like fish who cannot see, and the mouth of the everything full of so much nothing that surrounds me spews back not a single hint, you, the girl whose hair is licked a charred brown from the crackling fire of passion swirling from your inners, you, the love of my life, all that may have been past and all after ones too, you are the anchor of my imagination, the stone to hold down my wonder, and keep it from floating off into the vastness of the loneliness that consumes everything that is not here, in your arms, against the soft breeze of your touch, and then I know that everything is well, and all the unspoken beauties of the Universe only mean for me to wrap around you in way of mind and soul and body and laughs we share beside a city without lights, five stories above the world and soaring ever higher.

The fields were
Drenched in the
Silent static
That shimmered hesitantly
From a brew of clouds
Huddled up high.

A rope tied
Me to her
While everyone
Else pretended
To sway,
Connected with
Dotted lines.

The house was flat,
But filled with
Shivering candles
Licking away the dark
That lingered like
Broken lovers
Kicking dented cans
Down the foggy road
Beneath an October moon

So warm in its
Lovely illusion.

Amongst the stretches
Of chiseled sidewalk
Stuck with gum and bullet holes,

Waves of black water
Spilled over grass
Dangling in the pull
Of the moon's smirk.

Strung from strands
Of yarn not yet dyed
Hung a bench of sticks
And thorns and buds
With the potential to be
Pretty,

And with shoes cuffing
The ankles of skin
Pale as the shallow murk
Of the wavering sky,
Swinging with the steady
Beat of the croaks
And raspy whispers from
A hat covered head,

A splash of water,
Cool with the gentle peace
Of the final page
Of a book unwritten,
But open to any reader
Who dare choke on the waves themselves.